


Gain

by Arthurs_Logbook



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Acceptance, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Light Angst, M/M, Memories, Spoilers For Ch 6 & Epilogue, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arthurs_Logbook/pseuds/Arthurs_Logbook
Summary: Every night looped a small routine in the confines of John’s bedroom at Beecher’s Hope, almost as if it were a ritual. In a way, it was. On previous occasions of John trying to break the pattern, it always ended up in a restless sleep. He’d learned his lesson about that after he fell asleep whilst milking the cows, but nevertheless, there always was a moment of hesitation before opening the wardrobes door.





	Gain

Every night looped a small routine in the confines of John’s bedroom at Beecher’s Hope, almost as if it were a ritual. In a way, it was. On previous occasions of John trying to break the pattern, it always ended up in a restless sleep. He’d learned his lesson about that after he fell asleep whilst milking the cows, but nevertheless, there always was a moment of hesitation before opening the wardrobes door.

Dark, looming, and forlorn, as some clever man in one of Hosea’s poetry books claimed, shadows that spilled across the wooden floor and crept up the walls like vines is what always initiated John to move out from the covers.

As he slid out from beneath the white sheets and placed his feet down onto the bitterly cold floor, he couldn’t help but allow the usual concoction of anxiety bubble in the hollows of his chest. Every damn time. When would he get over this all? When would he break this habit and just move on? 

...Probably not anytime soon, he thought to himself, seething a hushed sigh.

He cleared his throat.

Then he moved across the dark room. Cautious, and stealthy, of course. He never moved too fast or made any sudden movements. If Abigail were to stir to become a witness to something so ridiculous and childlike, he dreaded the inevitable fate of an argument. It was a blessing how the woman hadn’t already caught her husband in his pathetic act, but perhaps she has and didn’t feel the need to conversate. If that was so, John believed in a god of some sorts.

Stopping to a full halt in front of their shared wardrobe, the moment of hesitation kicked in. Anything to avoid his hands fiddling with the golden knobs of the doors, he did it. 

He dared to glance over his shoulder as if to expect Abigail breathing huffs of rage like a bull down the nape of his neck. He dared to close his eyes and mentally convince himself to go back to bed, that this was all silly and foolish. He even dared to take a troubling step backward, but of course, his sly fingers caressed the handle as if it were a pure diamond.

John gave a tug.

_ Clink _ .

The ritual was nearly over with, John would’ve thought if he was in the right state of mind, but instead his heart’s beat dominated in the depths of his ears. He hated it, but his hands continued the drill.

Rifling through hung dress shirts, stark white dresses, and a proper suit or two, John’s fingers fiddled and fiddled until the familiar rugged fabric scraped against his calloused fingertips. He found what he was looking for, and pulled it out from behind all the clothes with the most delicate precision he could possibly achieve.

Arthur Morgan’s cold gunslinger jacket, a shell to nothing else but a blue collared shirt with one button undone at the top now laid in a vulnerable bundle in John’s shaking arms. When did he starting shaking?

John bit his lower lip as his dark gaze fell to the attire, raking his teeth across the chapped skin before wetting it with the tip of his tongue. Finally, Marston gave in.

His nose pushed flush against the baby blue fabric as he pulled his scarred cheek along the cloth like a domestic cat rubbing against their owner. An audible, but low groan that was filled with nothing but pure pain leaked out when he did so, but that didn’t stop him from colliding deeper into the web of mourning he knew all too well. John may seem strong on the outside with his petrifying scars and barking, but hell- the inside during midnight told a whole different story.

He was a fool, always had been. Arthur had told him to not look back, but…

John couldn’t help it.

His hands tenderly stroked over the wiry thread lose from worn out seams and hems before moving to knead at the buttons squandered from how many times they’ve assumingly popped off. While he fingered each and every little bit his touch could scavenge, he found his lips loose against bent folds of the leathery jacket before he maneuvered deeper in the nooks and crannies of the shirt, swathing his head in the memories.

Arthur and John had shared a fond connection throughout the tattered months after the Blackwater incident. They often found themselves together. Either plopped across from one another at a campfire with only the two of them to accompany it, herding sheep across the Heartland plains or John’s personal favorite, gathered against one another in the forest like a human knot, the two were certainly a pair

John missed it a lot more than he should. Especially with what he had going on in the current day. Although… what made him smile into the fabric was something he should probably be slaughtered for.

John didn’t feel guilty in the slightest bit.

Kissing Arthur beneath a sunrise as the shuddering man took his final breaths is what John did to finally confess his love, even if it meant gaining a gradual rattle to his own wheezing breath.

They’d be reunited, soon enough.


End file.
